ELLESMERE soon wrote us word that he would be able to come down again;
and I agreed to be at Worth-Ashton (Milverton’s house) on the day of his
arrival. I had scarcely seated myself at our usual place of meeting
before the friends entered, and after greeting me, the conversation thus
began:
_Ellesmere_. Upon my word, you people who live in the country have a
pleasant time of it. As Milverton was driving me from the station
through Durley Wood, there was such a rich smell of pines, such a
twittering of birds, so much joy, sunshine, and beauty, that I began to
think, if there were no such place as London, it really would be very
desirable to live in the country.
_Milverton_. What a climax! But I am always very suspicious, when
Ellesmere appears to be carried away by any enthusiasm, that it will
break off suddenly, like the gallop of a post-horse.
_Dunsford_. Well, what are we to have for our essay!
_Milverton_. Despair.
_Ellesmere_. I feel equal to anything just now, and so, if it must be
read sometime or other, let us have it now.
_Milverton_. You need not be afraid. I want to take away, not to add
gloom. Shall I read?
We assented, and he began.
DESPAIR.
Despair may be serviceable when it arises from a temporary prostration of
spirits: during which the mind is insensibly healing, and her scattered
power silently returning. This is better than to be the sport of a
teasing hope without reason. But to indulge in despair as a habit is
slothful, cowardly, short-sighted; and manifestly tends against Nature.
Despair is then the paralysis of the soul.
These are the principal causes of despair—remorse, the sorrows of the
affections, worldly trouble, morbid views of religion, native melancholy.
REMORSE.
Remorse does but add to the evil which bred it, when it promotes, not
penitence, but despair. To have erred in one branch of our duties does
not unfit us for the performance of all the rest, unless we suffer the
dark spot to spread over our whole nature, which may happen almost
unobserved in the torpor of despair. This kind of despair is chiefly
grounded on a foolish belief that individual words or actions constitute
the whole life of man: whereas they are often not fair representatives of
portions even of that life. The fragments of rock in a mountain stream
may tell much of its history, are in fact results of its doings, but they
are not the stream. They were brought down when it was turbid; it may
now be clear: they are as much the result of other circumstances as of
the action of the stream; their history is fitful: they give us no sure
intelligence of the future course of the stream, or of the nature of its
waters; and may scarcely show more than that it has not been always as it
is. The actions of men are often but little better indications of the
men themselves.
A prolonged despair arising from remorse is unreasonable at any age, but
if possible, still more so when felt by the young. To think, for
example, that the great Being who made us could have made eternal ruin
and misery inevitable to a poor half-fledged creature of eighteen or
nineteen! And yet how often has the profoundest despair from remorse
brooded over children of that age and eaten into their hearts.
There is frequently much selfishness about remorse. Put what has been
done at the worst. Let a man see his own evil word, or deed, in full
light, and own it to be black as hell itself. He is still here. He
cannot be isolated. There still remain for him cares and duties; and,
therefore, hopes. Let him not in imagination link all creation to his
fate. Let him yet live in the welfare of others, and, if it may be so,
work out his own in this way: if not, be content with theirs. The
saddest cause of remorseful despair is when a man does something
expressly contrary to his character: when an honourable man, for
instance, slides into some dishonourable action; or a tender-hearted man
falls into cruelty from carelessness; or, as often happens, a sensitive
nature continues to give the greatest pain to others from temper, feeling
all the time, perhaps, more deeply than the persons aggrieved. All these
cases may be summed up in the words, “That which I would not that I do,”
the saddest of all human confessions, made by one of the greatest men.
However, the evil cannot be mended by despair. Hope and humility are the
only supports under this burden. As Mr. Carlyle says,
“What are faults, what are the outward details of a life; if the
inner secret of it, the remorse, temptations, true, often-baffled,
never-ended struggle of it, be forgotten. ‘It is not in man that
walketh to direct his steps.’ Of all acts, is not, for a man,
_repentance_ the most divine? The deadliest sin, I say, were that
same supercilious consciousness of no sin; that is death: the heart
so conscious is divorced from sincerity, humility, and fact; is dead:
it is ‘pure’ as dead dry sand is pure. David’s life and history, as
written for us in those Psalms of his, I consider to be the truest
emblem ever given of a man’s moral progress and warfare here below.
All earnest souls will ever discern in it the faithful struggle of an
earnest human soul towards what is good and best. Struggle often
baffled, sore baffled, down as into entire wreck; yet a struggle
never ended; ever, with tears, repentance, true unconquerable
purpose, begun anew. Poor human nature! is not a man’s walking, in
truth, always that: a ‘succession of falls!’ Man can do no other.
In this wild element of a Life, he has to struggle onwards; now
fallen, deep abased; and ever, with tears, repentance, with bleeding
heart, he has to rise again, struggle again still onwards. That his
struggle be a faithful unconquerable one: this is the question of
questions.”
THE SORROWS OF THE AFFECTIONS.
The loss by death of those we love has the first place in these sorrows.
Yet the feeling in this case, even when carried to the highest, is not
exactly despair, having too much warmth in it for that. Not much can be
said in the way of comfort on this head. Queen Elizabeth, in her hard,
wise way, writing to a mother who had lost her son, tells her that she
will be comforted in time; and why should she not do for herself what the
mere lapse of time will do for her? Brave words! and the stern woman,
more earnest than the sage in “Rasselas,” would have tried their virtue
on herself. But I fear they fell somewhat coldly on the mother’s ear.
Happily, in these bereavements, kind Nature with her opiates, day by day
administered, does more than all the skill of the physician moralists.
Sir Thomas Browne says,
“Darkness and light divide the course of time, and oblivion shares
with memory a great part even of our living beings; we slightly
remember our felicities, and the smartest strokes of affliction leave
but short smart upon us. Sense endureth no extremities, and sorrows
destroy us or themselves. To weep into stones are fables.
Afflictions induce callosities, miseries are slippery, or fall like
snow upon us, which, notwithstanding, is no unhappy stupidity. To be
ignorant of evils to come, and forgetful of evils past, is a merciful
provision in Nature, whereby we digest the mixture of our few and
evil days, and our delivered senses not relapsing into cutting
remembrances, our sorrows are not kept raw by the edge of
repetitions.”
The good knight thus makes much comfort out of our physical weakness.
But something may be done in a very different direction, namely, by
spiritual strength. By elevating and purifying the sorrow, we may take
it more out of matter, as it were, and so feel less the loss of what is
material about it.
The other sorrows of the affections which may produce despair, are those
in which the affections are wounded, as jealousy, love unrequited,
friendship betrayed and the like. As, in despair from remorse, the whole
life seems to be involved in one action: so in the despair we are now
considering, the whole life appears to be shut up in the one unpropitious
affection. Yet human nature, if fairly treated, is too large a thing to
be suppressed into despair by one affection, however potent. We might
imagine that if there were anything that would rob life of its strength
and favour, it is domestic unhappiness. And yet how numerous is the bond
of those whom we know to have been eminently unhappy in some domestic
relation, but whose lives have been full of vigorous and kindly action.
Indeed the culture of the world has been largely carried on by such men.
As long as there is life in the plant, though it be sadly pent in, it
will grow towards any opening of light that is left for it.
WORLDLY TROUBLE.
This appears too mean a subject for despair, or, at least, unworthy of
having any remedy, or soothing thought out of it. Whether a man lives in
a large room or a small one, rides or is obliged to walk, gets a
plenteous dinner every day, or a sparing one, do not seem matters for
despair. But the truth is, that worldly trouble, such for instance, as
loss of fortune, is seldom the simple thing that poets would persuade us.
“The little or the much she gave is quietly resigned;
Content with poverty, my soul I arm,
And virtue, though in rags will keep me warm.”
So sings Dryden, paraphrasing Horace, but each of them with their
knowledge of the world, cross-questioned in prose, could have told us how
the stings of fortune really are felt. The truth is, that fortune is not
exactly a distinct isolated thing which can be taken away—“and there an
end.” But much has to be severed, with undoubted pain in the operation.
A man mostly feels that his reputation for sagacity, often his honour,
the comfort, too, or supposed comfort, of others are embarked in his
fortunes. Mere stoicism, and resolves about fitting fortune to oneself,
not oneself to fortune, though good things enough in their way, will not
always meet the whole of the case. And a man who could bear personal
distress of any kind with Spartan indifference, may suffer himself to be
overwhelmed by despair growing out of worldly trouble. A frequent origin
of such despair, as indeed of all despair (not by any means excluding
despair from remorse), is pride. Let a man say to himself, “I am not the
perfect character I meant to be; this is not the conduct I had imagined
for myself; these are not the fortunate circumstances I had always
intended to be surrounded by.” Let him at once admit that he is on a
lower level than his ideal one; and then see what is to be done there.
This seems the best way of treating all that part of worldly trouble
which consists of self-reproval. We scarcely know of any outward life
continuously prosperous (and a very dull one it would be): why should we
expect the inner life to be one course of unbroken self-improvement,
either in prudence, or in virtue?
Before a man gives way to excessive grief about the fortunes of his
family being lost with his own, he should think whether he really knows
wherein lies the welfare of others. Give him some fairy power,
inexhaustible purses or magic lamps, not, however, applying to the mind;
and see whether he could make those whom he would favour good or happy.
In the East, they have a proverb of this kind, Happy are the children of
those fathers who go to the Evil One. But for anything that our Western
experience shows, the proverb might be reversed, and, instead of running
thus, Happy are the sons of those who have got money anyhow, it might be,
Happy are the sons of those who have failed in getting money. In fact,
there is no sound proverb to be made about it either way. We know
nothing about the matter. Our surest influence for good or evil over
others is, through themselves. Our ignorance of what is physically good
for any man may surely prevent anything like despair with regard to that
part of the fortunes of others dear to us, which, as we think, is bound
up with our own.
MORBID VIEWS OF RELIGION.
As religion is the most engrossing subject that can be presented to us,
it will be considered in all states of mind and by all minds. It is
impossible but that the most hideous and perverted views of religion must
arise. To combat the particular views which may be supposed to cause
religious despair, would be too theological an undertaking for this
essay. One thing only occurs to me to say, namely, that the lives and
the mode of speaking about themselves adopted by the founders of
Christianity, afford the best contradiction to religious melancholy that
I believe can be met with.
NATIVE MELANCHOLY.
There is such a thing. Jacques, without the “sundry contemplation” of
his travels, or any “simples” to “compound” his melancholy form, would
have ever been wrapped in a “most humorous sadness.” It was innate.
This melancholy may lay its votaries open to any other cause of despair,
but having mostly some touch of philosophy (if it be not absolutely
morbid), it is not unlikely to preserve them from any extremity. It is
not acute, but chronic.
It may be said in its favour that it tends to make men indifferent to
their own fortunes. But then the sorrow of the world presses more deeply
upon them. With large open hearts, the untowardness of things present,
the miseries of the past, the mischief, stupidity, and error which reign
in the world, at times almost crush your melancholy men. Still, out of
their sadness may come their strength, or, at least, the best direction
of it. Nothing, perhaps, is lost; not even sin—much less sorrow.
_Ellesmere_. I am glad you have ended as you have: for, previously, you
seemed to make too much of getting rid of all distress of mind. I always
liked that passage in “Philip van Artevelde,” where Father John says,
“He that lacks time to mourn, lacks time to mend.
Eternity mourns that.”
You have a better memory than I have: how does it go on?
_Milverton_.
“’Tis an ill cure
For life’s worst ills, to have no time to feel them.
Where sorrow’s held intrusive and turned out,
There wisdom will not enter, nor true power,
Nor aught that dignifies humanity.”
Still this does not justify despair, which was what I was writing about.
_Ellesmere_. Perhaps it was not a just criticism of mine. One part of
the subject you have certainly omitted. You do not tell us how much
there often is of physical disorder in despair. I dare say you will
think it a coarse and unromantic mode of looking at things; but I must
confess I agree with what Leigh Hunt has said somewhere, that one can
walk down distress of mind—even remorse, perhaps.
_Milverton_. Yes; I am for the Peripatetics against all other
philosophers.
_Ellesmere_. By the way, there is a passage in one of Hazlitt’s essays,
I thought of while you were reading, about remorse and religious
melancholy. He speaks of mixing up religion and morality; and then goes
on to say, that Calvinistic notions have obscured and prevented
self-knowledge. {42}
Give me the essay—there is a passage I want to look at. This comparison
of life to a mountain stream, the rocks brought down by it being the
actions, is too much worked out. When we speak of similes not going on
four legs, it implies, I think, that a simile is at best but a
four-legged animal. Now this is almost a centipede of a simile. I think
I have had the same thought as yours here, and I have compared the life
of an individual to a curve. You both smile. Now I thought that
Dunsford at any rate would be pleased with this reminiscence of college
days. But to proceed with my curve. You may have numbers of the points
through which it passes given, and yet know nothing of the nature of the
curve itself. See, now, it shall pass through here and here, but how it
will go in the interval, what is the law of its being, we know not. But
this simile would be too mathematical, I fear.
_Milverton_. I hold to the centipede.
_Ellesmere_. Not a word has Dunsford said all this time.
_Dunsford_. I like the essay. I was not criticising as we went along,
but thinking that perhaps the greatest charm of books is, that we see in
them that other men have suffered what we have. Some souls we ever find
who could have responded to all our agony, be it what it may. This at
least robs misery of its loneliness.
_Ellesmere_. On the other hand, the charm of intercourse with our
fellows, when we are in sadness, is that they do not reflect it in any
way. Each keeps his own trouble to himself, and often pretending to
think and care about other things, comes to do so for the time.
_Dunsford_. Well, but you might choose books which would not reflect
your troubles.
_Ellesmere_. But the fact of having to make a choice to do this, does
away, perhaps, with some part of the benefit: whereas, in intercourse
with living men, you take what you find, and you find that neither your
trouble, nor any likeness of it, is absorbing other people. But this is
not the whole reason: the truth is, the life and impulses of other men
are catching; you cannot explain exactly how it is that they take you out
of yourself.
_Milverton_. No man is so confidential as when he is addressing the
whole world. You find, therefore, more comfort for sorrow in books than
in social intercourse. I mean more direct comfort; for I agree with what
Ellesmere says about society.
_Ellesmere_. In comparing men and books, one must always remember this
important distinction—that one can put the books down at any time. As
Macaulay says, “Plato is never sullen. Cervantes is never petulant.
Demosthenes never comes unseasonably. Dante never stays too long.”
_Milverton_. Besides, one can manage to agree so well, intellectually,
with a book; and intellectual differences are the source of half the
quarrels in the world.
_Ellesmere_. Judicious shelving!
_Milverton_. Judicious skipping will nearly do. Now when one’s friend,
or oneself, is crotchety, dogmatic, or disputatious, one cannot turn over
to another day.
_Ellesmere_. Don’t go, Dunsford. Here is a passage in the essay I meant
to have said something about—“why should we expect the inner life to be
one course of unbroken self-improvement,” etc.—You recollect? Well, it
puts me in mind of a conversation between a complacent poplar and a grim
old oak, which I overheard the other day. The poplar said that it grew
up quite straight, heavenwards, that all its branches pointed the same
way, and always had done so. Turning to the oak, which it had been
talking at before for some time, the poplar went on to remark, that it
did not wish to say anything unfriendly to a brother of the forest, but
those warped and twisted branches seemed to show strange struggles. The
tall thing concluded its oration by saying, that it grew up very fast,
and that when it had done growing, it did not suffer itself to be made
into huge floating engines of destruction. But different trees had
different tastes. There was then a sound from the old oak, like an “ah”
or a “whew,” or, perhaps, it was only the wind amongst its resisting
branches; and the gaunt creature said that it had had ugly winds from
without and cross-grained impulses from within; that it knew it had
thrown out awkwardly a branch here and a branch there, which would never
come quite right again it feared; that men worked it up, sometimes for
good and sometimes for evil—but that at any rate it had not lived for
nothing. The poplar began again immediately, for this kind of tree can
talk for ever, but I patted the old oak approvingly and went on.
_Milverton_. Well, your trees divide their discourse somewhat
Ellesmerically: they do not talk with the simplicity La Fontaine’s would;
but there is a good deal in them. They are not altogether sappy.
_Ellesmere_. I really thought of this fable of mine the other day, as I
was passing the poplar at the end of the valley, and I determined to give
it you on the first occasion.
_Dunsford_. I hope, Ellesmere, you do not intend to put sarcastic
notions into the sap of our trees hereabouts. There’s enough of sarcasm
in you to season a whole forest.
_Ellesmere_. Dunsford is afraid of what the trees may say to the country
gentlemen, and whether they will be able to answer them. I will be
careful not to make the trees too clever.
_Milverton_. Let us go and try if we can hear any more forest talk. The
winds, shaped into voices by the leaves, say many things to us at all
times.